Papoose Poems

Let There Be Limericks: Perplexing Plurals

A papoose with a twin is papooses,
Double goose and get geese, but not gooses.
Pluralizing perplexes me,
Aggravates me, and vexes me,
And I suspect that it checks my creative juices.

Grandma Uses Baby Talk

Hello dear Papier Ma’che papoose.
Do you use paprika on your plums?
Babies do not talk, papoose thought.
This grandma must be all kinds of dumbs.

Rest In Peace

'Tis fascinating to read epitaphs that upon stones are etched;

Some are rather appealing, some are tragic, others a bit far-fetched!

'Neath this stone lie at peace a husband and his wife
She a Republican-He a Democrat-both now free of strife

Here rests Bruno Snipes the founder of our fair city
He slipped on a banana peel and died-Oh what a pity

Lion trainer Dave was brave and famed
'Til he met Leo who refused to be tamed

Uncle Bob died so young and we wondered why
Seems he tried to drink Canada Dry

The plane's controls Pilot Horace failed to recoup
Alas he spun out doing a double outside loop

Cowpoke Hank should've known as a matter of course
That it was futile to borrow a judge's horse

Here sleeps Senator Claghorn the wiliest politico around
He was so crooked they screwed him in the ground

Here lies the prolific Chief Many Papoose
Who with brave's wives played fancy and loose

She met her doom as over the cliff she did traverse
Instead of shifting to drive she shifted to reverse

Cowboy Pete was so bow-legged from riding his horse
That he lies in a double-wide coffin as a matter of course

New Child

Wrapped like a papoose
In those dark, damp 
Fog shrouded nights,
I can feel you whisper 
“We will meet again.”
And this time you’re showing off,
Your translucent skin
Glistening in the moonlight 
Like an unending sheet of
Silken eternity.
Do you miss me, as I miss you?
I believe you must, 
Yet...
Now you’re a new child visiting this
Old block,
One with the stars now,
Sending moonbeams and fairy dust,
Blowing through the galaxy,
Back and forth you go 
Like a rising then 
Setting sun,
Brighter than an Olympic torch,
Not caring at all about those 
Births of yesterday.

Trump Big Baby Born a Papoose

Trump Big Baby Born a Papoose

We gave up Trump saying what is the use;
Trump acts like big baby born a papoose,
Out words spitting,
And never quitting;
While in public pacifier he will produce.

Jim Horn

Algonquian Papoose

*Image of Algonquian Papoose by Wikipedia.


Algonquian Papoose


A tribal warrior searching for want
The great abyss secures the tale
A hawk dives down to retrieve what is lost
Returns without, it was a fail.


Pursues the quest, perchance a dove may help
Its genteel spirit might awake
Like the hawk, the dove dives down the abyss
The time is longer, so he waits.


The dove returns, and what was sought, it brings
A man child that was fast asleep
The tribal warrior attempts to wake
Yet, like the abyss, sleep is deep.


He ponders a thought and calls the white doe
In a blink, it stood before him
It drops its head and nibbles the fresh herbs
Saunters and licks the child with vim.


Trails of herbs criss-cross its face as eyes pierce
A mouth yawns and body stretches
An Indian born enlarges the tribe
Tradition pact hereof sketches.


2019 June 21
A BRIAN STRAND 1095
~~Brian Strand

Chief Randy Moose

His warriors called him Chief Randy Moose

   Since with young maidens he played fast and loose

      He was very prolific

         His stamina terrific

            He enlarged his tribe with many papoose

Innocently Unaware

Dream catcher made of turtle shell
Elemental magic, soul bringer, dream walker
Enlightens papoose, savoring his knowing smile.

Grandfather Shaman feeds the fire
Whose pleasure to warm is well-known in teepees.
Tribal spirit faeries hide in furs 

Braves will return tomorrow 
Hopefully from a good hunt.
Innocent ones sleep soundly,
Unworried, on small pox blankets.

Sleepy

sleepy papoose
nunavut eskimo baby
tucked in mama's hood



posted on September 4, 2018

I Lived In Appanoose

I once lived in an Iowan county called Appanoose.
Yes, there were women and babies, called the little Papoose.
We drank lemonade, coffee, tea, and some carrot juice
Nothing exotic like escargot, or salmon mousse

Our lives were so ordinarily simple in Appanoose
We ate hot dogs and drank beer, and made our own apple juice
We shunned saying words like healthy, glutton-free, and carrot juice
We were common salt of the earth people in Appanoose

A nice, friendly new farmer came to town, and tried to sell us his great produce
But we all had our own gardens, with plenty of vegetables, and a lot of use
Our veggies were tasty, and our red strawberries made some fine fruit juice
So I am sorry to report that he barely broke even in Appanoose

Smile For Me, Bruce

Just a big overgrown kid, my Bruce
Wanting to hit the road and vamoose
Dreams of conducting a caboose
Go all the way up to Toulouse

Bruce refuses to grow up, what’s the use
He can rhyme off one of many old excuse
And sometimes swears to All and to Zeus

Bruce wasn’t always this way, something came loose
He’s become simple yet ever so abstruse
Can’t differentiate a moose from a goose
Doesn’t have a clue what to do with his papoose

The best we could do was come to a truce
Now they both get an afternoon nap after their juice
Sometimes I feel like a recluse
But never a victim of abuse
Or that life dealt me a deuce

When Bruce smiles he can still seduce



AP: Honorable Mention 2020

Posted on March 17, 2018

Biking

One day,
I woke up and jumped 
on my new blue English bicycle,
the outside rushed upon me,
crisp and fired up with that final fierce snap of autumn.
The garden state, awaiting it's signal from winter, 
sounded the trumpets of the explosions of ornamentation,
leaves, 
moving with the force of a falling sun,
from yellow to that final blood spilled aura of red,
matching the color of mama's knitted red sweater,
that blew around my shoulders, 
and I became a wild eyed papoose,
on the back of a bike,
pedaling with the roar of the November wind,
faster, uphill, then down,
til I saw the refuge of the hundred year old house,
and joined Amy,
the old woman of that village,
who housed a hundred cats.

A Short Indian Tale

A Short Indian Tale

I look out of my window
As my leaves blow across the lawn
Some go into my neighbors yard
I laugh, lean back and yawn.

We seem to be now having 
An extended Indian summer
Dec 4 with local temps
Mid 60’s now they hover

But that brought to mind
Our recent Thanksgivings day
And the sturdy Indians bucks
Some say came that day 

They couldn’t have been all grown
Nor wearing a big head-dress
There would have been some ladies
Dressed proudly in a doeskin dress

Strapped upon their sturdy backs
A youngster safe and sound
His tan cheeks and tiny eyes
Just looking all around. 

This lead me to a tale 
Of a young papoose buck
Who lived a privileged life
With almost daily luck

But yet at times
Things may not work
Sometimes there’s just
Some silly quirk.

A warm, herbal beverage
As he went to sleep
Settled him down 
Without a peep.

He went to bed
In his mom’s wig-wam
But woke some mornings
In his own “tea-pee”. :o(

Written by oldbuck Dec. 4, 2017 
as a change of pace from all the Holiday themes

Existence

My politician is the cosmos,
that unending piece of star filled canopy
that wraps my soul 
to sleep each night.
I'm a swaddled papoose 
on it's immortal back,
just for the ride.
It's the happy magician that rules
a hundred thousand thoughts....
Sun and moon are the curtains of the macrocosm,
that shrinks your small words 
of what holds today.

Velvet Raven

Velvet Raven my fawn,
braids of deepest coal black.
You are my breaking dawn,
having you would I lack?
Pretty prairie blossom,
I am sadly lonesome.

Wipe away this aching,
my heart feels for you strong.
Know not you are stealing
my thoughts all day long?
I cant eat and sleep much,
I want your close touch,

Be squaw cooking my food,
tending new papoose near,
cutting wickiup's wood
working skinning doe deer.
I will baffalo kill,
so our stomachs might fill.

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